


Visitant

by Auchen



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-08
Updated: 2016-02-08
Packaged: 2018-05-19 04:45:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5954122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Auchen/pseuds/Auchen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In his last, dying moments, a caller comes to Erik's home. The caller is unexpected, but is someone that Erik is very familiar with.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Visitant

**Author's Note:**

> This story was loosely inspired by the Twilight Zone episode "Nothing in the Dark".

He thought that he was due to be alone in his last moments, but the world couldn't even grant _that_ small kindness, could it? The world did not see it fit to extend any sort of dignity in dying to a man such as he. In one last act of cruelty, Fate saw fit to wave Her hand and allow a stranger to see him in his weakest of moments.

But then, he dimly wondered, why hadn't he heard the alarm bell sound? If someone had ventured into his domain, he should have known. Even now, he would have heard. There were instincts within him that were sharper that the feebleness that shrouded him. He would have heard if someone had entered.

Surely he would have.

But then as he lay on the ground, watching the stranger's shoes shuffle about him, he supposed that dying men were not usually terribly alert. In this moment of vulnerability, it was one consolation to him that the stranger would perhaps mistake him for a long dead corpse. After all, his face certainly looked it, and he could feel the rise and fall of his chest become so slow and imperceptible, it was easy to entirely miss his inhales.

The sound of fabric whispered against the floor as the stranger knelt down near him. It was then that Erik saw the man's face. It was young with a strong jaw, and unmarred skin. The face was, he supposed, by generic standards, handsome. But it was still terribly plain. (But who was he to judge someone's features? He knew very well that he would have done anything to have a face as plain as that man's.)

Erik laughed at the thought. Oh, he didn't want to, but there was something inside him that pushed out the laughter through his dry throat and thin lips. At least that would certainly surprise the man! A corpse laughing--who had ever heard of such a thing?

But the man didn't startle, nor did he withdraw. He simply pinched his lips and drew up his brows in...in sympathy?

"It's been a long time," the man said. His hand inched forward, reaching toward Erik's fingers that lay on the ground, curled up.

Erik jerked his hand away, wincing at the energy that the movement took.

"Who are you?" he spat. "How did you get down here?" There was little point in asking such questions, but his old, prickly habits didn't leave so easily.

The man pulled his hand back and frowned. "You know me. You know me better than most people do, I think."

"Know you? I've never seen you before, foolish boy." But he spoke the words too soon.

As he squinted at the man, it was as if something shifted inside Erik's foggy mind. Yes, there was something strangely familiar about the man. Was he a stagehand of some sort? A patron of the opera? There were dozens of unremarkable men that swarmed about the Opera House like ants, and if they were of little significance to Erik, then he didn't typically make note of such irrelevant men.

It must have been one of those sorts of men--someone who Erik had seen several times before, perhaps moving scenery, but no one that he thought had mattered. But then, why would the man say that Erik knew him? The number of people that Erik knew could be counted on one hand.

The man leaned in a bit closer, the edge of his mouth moving up. "Look closer. You'll see."

Why Erik obeyed the man, he didn't know. It could probably be chalked up to the stubbornness that had plagued him all his life, that gnawing desire to always come to some sort of satisfying conclusion to a question that he had. He traced the man's features with his eyes, noting the small shape of his nose that turned up a bit at the end, his wide mouth, the ears that slightly stuck out. And then he moved on to the man's cheekbones. That's when things became...irregular. They seemed more pointed than they should have been for a face like that. The more he looked at the man's cheekbones, the darker the shadows beneath them became, and then the darkness began to spread to the man's eyes, filling in the eye sockets with an inky void.

Erik's eyelids flickered, and his heart battered his chest at the sudden realization.

"You," he whispered, the word coming out as a tone somewhere between reverence and fear.

When his eyes returned to the man, his features had become plain once again, but the realization was still there. Once he had seen the outline of the skull beneath the man's untoward face, it all made sense.

Erik's upper lip curled. "I expected something...more. A cloak, perhaps. A scythe. Cliche, I suppose, but when one is inundated with certain cultural depictions of you, one comes to expect certain things. At the very least, I would have thought your entrance would be dramatic."

"But is that what you would have really wanted?"

Erik sighed. Some part of his mind registered that this conversation was absurd. He was debating with Death concerning the proper aesthetics that should be used to herald his gloomy coming. But another part of him thought that it was quite appropriate for he, a man who had spent much of his life pretending to be a ghost--among other macabre professions--, to be having such a conversation.

"As I said, it is what I expected."

Death laughed. The sound was like a gentle breeze passing between autumn leaves, rattling their desiccated forms. "Need and expectation are two different things."

"So they are." But Erik hardly saw how he needed to have a plain young man come to collect his soul.

"Erik." This time, Death's tone threaded itself into his mind, like a gentle command Death was prodding him to obey. "Your life has not been kind, nor has it been gentle. Do you now understand why I chose this form over another?"

"Yes. I...suppose so." And it did make sense, he supposed. As he thought about it, a howling, thrashing ushering out of life wasn't what he wanted. After all, wasn't that why he had been annoyed when he thought a stranger had ventured into his home? All Erik had wanted was some peace and solitude at the end of it all.

But this--this very moment--couldn't be the very end. It was too abrupt. Suddenly standing at the yawning doorstep of Death he found himself--well, not afraid exactly, but uncertain. He very much doubted that God was standing beyond that great gulf, and even if He was, Erik certainly didn't think he would be welcomed at heaven's gleaming gates.

"What shall it be then? Hell, I suppose, if such a thing does indeed exist. I would expect little else. Ah, but what circle shall I be damned to? Following Dante's designations, perhaps I am destined to the fifth circle where the wrathful and sullen reside." He wheezed another laugh and with some effort, lifted a hand cover his grinning mouth.

"I do not think--"

But then he interrupted Death. The very thought of interrupting Death set him into another bout of laughter. "No, no! I am being too kind to myself, am I not? The seventh circle that punishes the violent would be more than fitting for one such as myself. Or--or no. I am a treacherous, wicked man, am I not? The ninth circle would do well for me then. Ah, Lord Death, you shall have a hard time placing me indeed!" The thought gave him a certain amount of grim satisfaction. He was being troublesome to the last.

"My job is not to judge, only to collect. The deeds you have done in your life are not my concern." Death's voice still held that quiet sternness.

"Ah, then you admit that I shall be damned to hell?"

"The next plane of existence is perhaps more complicated than you think. If you take my hand I can show you." Death reached out that hand to him again, that plain, solid hand that did not force, did not wrench, did not grasp. The splayed palm that simply lay open, waiting for Erik to make his own choice.

There was nothing but to accept, was there? Erik's fingers twitched, his heart hammering. He raised his hand, his thin, impossibly skeletal one hovering near the welcoming palm of Death. Death smiled and nodded as if he were encouraging an uncertain child. At that motion, Erik was about to place his hand in Death's until a thought flashed through his brain like a crack of lightning.

He yanked his arm back, cradling his arm against his chest with his other hand. Death's eyes had widened, and he dropped his hand to lean it against his knees.

"What is the matter?" he asked, his voice like the soft brush of frost against window panes.

"You must tell me! You must tell me if--" he swallowed, for he could barely bring himself to say it. "You must know. Yes, you must, but whether you will tell me is a different story, eh?"

"Unless you ask it, I cannot tell you either way."

"Christine," Erik whispered, her voice passing his lips like a memorized prayer. "If you collect the souls of all, mustn't you know when she will die? Please, you must tell me--shall she live a long life?"

For a moment, Death's face was unreadable, his eyes shuttered from all emotions. Was he considering what answer to give? Would he refuse?

"Giving that information isn't typically done, but--"

Erik felt as if a chasm had opened in his chest. Everything hinged on Death's answer.

"Yes, she will live a long life."

"And? And shall her life be happy, or shall it be a tragedy?" A long life meant little if it was filled with years of black misery. It was better to die young and full of joy than old and full of bitterness and melancholy. He knew that well.

"I do not know that. The events of her life aren't set in stone. But I should think...I should think that it will be a good life." A faint smile flickered across Death's face.

Erik's grip against his arm loosened. "Yes, yes. It will be. Her young man will take care of her, I think. He does care for her so, and she for him. Oh, I know how much she cares for him. She will be happy with him. Yes, yes..."

"Take my hand, Erik." Death was reaching out again, so close this time that his fingers filled Erik's entire vision.

Uncertainty no longer tore through his chest. Whatever else happened the moment he stepped beyond this life, at least he had learned the one answer that really mattered. Everything else he could deal with. He was adaptable. He would shift and change to whatever surroundings he found himself in. And, with a touch of amusement, he realized that now he would truly be the ghost he had pretended to be for so many years.

He slipped his hand into Death's reaching grasp. A chill that he had never felt shuddered through every inch of his veins and bones. A gasp came from his throat--a soft exhale of air that spoke of every gasping cry and sob that he had uttered throughout his miserable life. But also a breath of relief--of knowing that his Christine was safe, of relief at knowing that finally this physical existence could no longer torment him.

And then, the chill was over and he stood next to Death, who was finally in the form that Erik was familiar with. The black cavities of the skull's eye sockets stared into him. It was a gaunt, noseless face that that he was terribly familiar with.

"Come. You have much to learn." Then Death, still guiding Erik with his hand, walked forward.

And then, the Opera Ghost stepped out into the winding darkness of the unknown.


End file.
